


Your Touch is My Choice

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Claudia Stilinski Memories, Frontotemporal Dementia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, fyi the abuse stops but it's not exactly resolved, it's ambiguously purposeful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 18:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14550990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: The first time John does it, Stiles is two years old and about to run into the road.“Mieczysław!” Heart pounding, John grabbed him by the back of his neck and got a hand around his tummy, snatching him back. “No, you have to stay away from the road,” he said firmly.





	Your Touch is My Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Listennnn I saw a [perfectly innocent gifset on tumblr](http://forthesakeofyourwolvelihood.tumblr.com/post/87441995509) and hated everything about it, so here's 2k words of me being mad.

The first time John does it, Stiles is two years old and about to run into the road.

 

“Mieczysław!” Heart pounding, John grabbed him by the back of his neck and got a hand around his tummy, snatching him back. _“No,_ you have to stay away from the road,” he said firmly.

 

Stiles, startled, began to cry, and they both retreated into the house for some nerve-calming orange juice. For John, in the form of a screwdriver.

 

____________________

 

He was halfway up the fence when a large hand came down on the back of his neck and pulled him off.

 

“Just where do you think you’re going?” John asked, eyebrow raised, hand still firm on Stiles’ scruff and he marched him across the lawn back towards the house.

 

“Dad, there’s a _wolf_ behind the fence! I wanna see it!” Stiles tried to crane around to look back again, but John’s grip was unrelenting.

 

He chuckled at his kindergartener’s imagination.

 

“Son, there aren’t any wolves in California. Not for decades.”

 

“But _dad-”_

 

“Come on, kid.”

 

____________________

 

John’s hand was hot and tight on his neck, directing him through the hospital.

 

“You can’t just run off like that, Stiles,” he said quietly, voice strained.

 

Stiles’ eyes were red. “She doesn’t know who I am. She thinks I’m trying to murder her.”

 

“She doesn’t think that-”

 

“She _does.”_ Stiles struggled to get out of his dad’s hold again, his little 9 year old muscles doing nothing to get away. He started to panic again as they got closer. “Dad, dad, I’m scaring her and she scares me-”

 

They walked back into the hospital room, and the wild eyed woman who used to be his mother shrank back and started babbling.   


“John, you have to arrest him!! He’s going to kill me-”

 

“Claudia, he’s our _son,_ he’s not trying-” John let go of Stiles to placate his wife, and Stiles immediately took off again, running through the halls until he was outside.

 

He crouched behind the bushes- hands clasped behind his neck, rubbing the marks there- until it was dark.

 

____________________

 

Marched out of the middle school principal’s office.

 

Driven out of the evidence locker.

 

Shoved away from crime scenes.

 

Literally thrown out of the home office once, an empty whiskey bottle following.

 

Every time, with a tight grip on the back of his neck: moving, pushing, _controlling._

 

Stiles pretends to develop a penchant for plaid.  

 

What he really develops a penchant for is shirts with collars. Collars just high enough to cover.

 

____________________

 

_THUD_

 

The boy’s face landed against the laptop in a carefully controlled push.

 

The kid, who until now had been remarkably calm in the face of essentially being taken hostage, began breathing faster. His heartbeat went from mildly stressed to galloping, and Peter felt a cold sweat break out over the boy’s skin. A clearly unintentional whine left his throat.

 

Peter took a step back but maintained his hold, confused. He truly didn’t think the hand he’d put on the kid’s neck had been too forceful, but maybe he’d underestimated himself. He took a delicate sniff, but could detect no fresh blood beneath the skin, no forming bruises. Something older, maybe-

 

“I’m not giving you the password.”

 

Peter growled, and focused on getting the information he needed.

 

____________________

 

It honestly wasn’t something he had to worry about from other people too often these days, but Stiles had become a master at avoiding it whenever possible.

 

Shoulders angled just right during a hug, so that the other person’s arms went around his waist.

 

A hand clasped on his shoulder was given exactly two seconds before Stiles changed position to remove it.

 

Anytime Stiles sensed something coming near his neck, he jerked away- it gave him a reputation of being convulsive and jumpy, but whatever. Better than letting anyone touch him there or pull down his collar.

 

It became more of a problem when he started dating.

 

Girls and boys wanted to kiss his neck. They wanted to massage tension away, wanted the intimacy of touch in vulnerable places- and Stiles wanted that too. But not _there._

 

Telling them he was ticklish just encouraged the opposite action of what he wanted. Telling them he had sensitive skin made them want to rub lotions on his neck. Telling them he just didn’t like it made them think he was making excuses.

 

Eventually, he stopped dating.

 

There was only one person he really wanted to date anyway.

 

“Hey Zombiewolf,” Stiles said as he set his laptop bag down on the kitchen table of the loft. “You read for our study date?” He waggled his eyebrows, well practiced at hiding his wish inside a joke.

 

“Oh yes,” said Peter drolly. “Nothing more romantic than an evening spent together, reading about which types of flying creatures eviscerate their enemies before dropping their entrails over a square mile from a great height to warn off everyone else.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Stiles said. “Derek probably has a Scentsy around here, let’s dig it out and put in some scented Mood Wax.”

 

Peter snorted inelegantly. “What on earth would ‘Mood Wax’ be?”

 

“Very sexily scented wax, of course. Scents like blue cheese, bug spray, patchouli-”

 

Peter was laughing now. His genuine, from the belly laugh that only happened around Stiles. Stiles grinned at him, and they got to work.

 

____________________

 

It turns out there aren’t a lot of creatures that eviscerate their enemies before spreading their entrails over a square mile by dropping them from a great height.

 

In fact, as far as they could tell, there were _no_ creatures that do that.

 

It got later and later. It certainly wasn’t the only time they’d stayed up late researching together; it wasn’t even the first time Stiles had fallen asleep while they researched. But usually he moved to the couch or an armchair and curled up on himself.

 

This time, he’d fallen asleep right at the table, elbows askew, clothing pulled in awkward directions.

 

Peter stared at him for a bit. Perhaps a bit longer than “a bit.” Definitely long enough to be creepy, really.

 

But it was one of the very few opportunities Peter had to look without restraint, without masking his adoration. The soft movements of his breath, dark hair brushing against pale skin that stretched down-

 

Was that a bruise?

 

It had been weeks since the last time Stiles was involved in a fight. Why did he have a bruise?

 

Peter silently got up and moved around behind Stiles, peering at the back of his neck. Five bruises. Four on one side, one on the other, low on his neck.

 

His stomach boiled with rage.

 

He reached out to hook a finger in Stiles’ collar, wanting a closer look at the damage, to make sure every inch of harm was repaid threefold to whoever had dealt it-

 

Almost faster than he could process, Stiles’ hand was gripped around his wrist, yanking it away. He’d gone from asleep to awake in an instant. Peter could smell the adrenaline pounding through his system.

 

They were both silent for a moment, staring at each other.

 

“Who?” Peter finally asked.

 

“Don’t touch my neck,” Stiles responded. It was as clear a threat as Peter had ever received.

 

“Who?” Peter insisted, although he was sure he already knew.

 

“Don’t,” Stiles reiterated. “Just don’t.”

 

Peter felt ill. He’d _seen_ the sheriff do this before, everyone had; why hadn’t they noticed how hard he was gripping?   


“Peter,” Stiles sounded desperate now. _“Don’t._ I just don’t like people touching my neck. Everyone has something- Lydia hates cemeteries, you hate fire-”

 

“Lydia hates cemeteries and I hate fire because of traumatic experiences we’ve had,” Peter said, jaw clenched. “So, yes, those are very apt comparisons. The thing is, I killed the people responsible for my trauma.”

 

“But Lydia didn’t kill you,” Stiles pointed out. “And you’re definitely responsible for at least a some of her trauma. And what are you even talking about, I’m not-” he let go of Peter’s wrist to gesticulate wildly, _“-trauma,”_ he finished nonsensically.

 

Peter breathed through his nose, with his hands on his hips. He itched to pull Stiles into his arms, but this was definitely not the moment for that.

 

Stiles fidgeted under Peter’s eyes for a moment before clenching his own jaw and beginning to pack up.

 

“It’s late, we both need sleep-”

 

“You’re moving out.”

 

Stiles paused, looking over his shoulder at Peter. He slowly nodded.

 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “In six weeks, right after graduation. I’m doing the summer jumpstart for the college. I have a dorm reserved.”

 

Peter remembered the information vividly, of course. Stiles was attending a local school, but not so local that it would be practical for him to live at home full time.

 

“You’ll stay there on the weekends too?”

 

“Probably.”

 

Peter nodded, lost in thought, considering and discarding plan after plan for how he could protect Stiles and pull the sheriff’s penance from him. He startled when he felt Stiles’ light touch on his arm.

 

“Don’t,” he said softly, yet again. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. It’s just a small thing. He doesn’t do it on purpose.”

 

Peter’s chest ached.

 

“No hurt you receive at the hands of someone else is ever going to be a small thing for me, Stiles.”

 

Peter finally gave in to his instincts and pulled Stiles in for a hug, keeping his arms low and loose so that Stiles was in control. Stiles stilled for a moment, and then hugged back tightly.

 

____________________

 

For the next six weeks, Peter had his eyes more open than ever before in his life.

 

He watched Stiles’ collar, wondering if the bruises had disappeared yet, or been replaced by new ones.

 

He finally noticed how Stiles darted away from anything that came anywhere near his head.

 

He saw others thoughtlessly approach him from behind, and intercepted them before they could lay a hand anywhere near Stiles’ discomfort zone.

 

On graduation night, he watched the sheriff hug Stiles with a hand clapped to the back of his neck, and “accidentally” dropped a loud noisemaker on the ground, startling them apart.

 

“So sorry,” he said, fake smile plastered on his face as he maneuvered between the two of them. He placed one hand at the small of Stiles’ back and one on the back of John’s neck, gripping tightly.

 

“Should we head to dinner?” he asked pleasantly.

 

“Geez, Peter, ease up,” John said, trying to shrug off the hand.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that uncomfortable?” Peter asked sharply.

 

“Peter,” Stiles said in a warning undertone. Louder, he added “Yeah, let’s go meet up with everyone at the diner.”

 

Peter let go of John, but kept his other hand on Stiles.

 

He didn’t seem to mind.

 

____________________

 

Two weeks later, Stiles was settled into his dorm.

 

The last of the bruises on his neck faded away a week after that, and yet another week after that he had his first visit from Peter.

 

It would’ve just been silly to wait another week to kiss him.

 

____________________

 

Stiles never moved back home, for any amount of time. He spoke with his dad often, continued to love him fiercely, but… he avoided coming within an arm’s length.

 

Peter’s apartment became his residence during off semesters. When Peter moved closer to the college, it became his residence during on semesters too.

 

Graduation was so close Stiles could almost taste it, if he could just get through his capstone. He’d been hunched over a desk for the last 8 hours, and his body was definitely paying for it. He shambled out of their office and collapsed with his torso in Peter’s lap, haphazardly fighting off his t-shirt as he went.

 

Once he finally succeeded, the t-shirt was flung in the general direction of their bedroom and Stiles mumbled with his face in the couch, “Back rub. Please. Now.”

 

Amused, Peter dug his fingers into the muscles across Stiles’ shoulder blades. The relieved moan Stiles let out was practically pornographic. Peter continued to knead for a while, until Stiles said, “Higher.”

 

Peter moved his hands up, keeping to his upper back, until Stiles again said, “Higher.”

 

Peter paused, and then cautiously moved up toward the top knobs of his spine, massaging gently. Stiles let out a happy little grumble and settled into the rub.

 

Eventually though, the order came again.

 

“Higher, please.”

 

Peter stopped all together.

 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

 

“Peter pleeeeeease,” he whined.

 

Peter carefully brought his hands down on the back of Stiles’ neck, massaging away the tension. Stiles mm’ed and ooh’ed as the aches disappeared.

 

Not a single trace of panic or fear came from him.

 

Amazed, Peter continued his work until Stiles wiggled over to look up at him.

 

“Thanks, that was great,” he said as he yawned and stretched.

 

Peter looked at him closely, wondering if Stiles even realized what had just happened. Stiles smiled at him.

 

“Thanks,” he repeated softly.

 

“Anytime you ask,” he promised, and leaned down for a kiss.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Derek has at least 4 Scentsy warmers, don't @ me it's just the truth.
> 
> Also, seriously, I hate this so so much. If you come anywhere near my neck you're getting punched. Square the fuck up, I'll throw hands with anyone who thinks this is acceptable. I'm 100% announcing that this is personal for me, and if you don't like how it's dealt with in the fic you should know that I DON'T EITHER but sometimes it's just like that and you take the resolution you can get. Welcome to my therapy session, let me put a few cubes in my candle warmer and then you can all listen to me talk about my childhood for six hours.


End file.
